The Dogmen
by Janizary
Summary: Living Steel/Rhand: 2349 - One-shot story for Eddie's 'Circle of Friends'. Featuring Ben Carson, and Waldo, uh, Max if you can find him .


_A/N: As mentioned in my profile, a very, very good friend of mine passed away many years ago leaving a legacy of compassion and caring with the friends he left behind. He also left many (MANY) stories in letters (yes, the paper kind), college ruled paper, and, in some cases, on post-it notes. This short is a transcription of one of those paper trails he left behind for his friends._

_Setting: Living Steel/Rhand: 2349 (go look it up)_

_Again, I did NOT write this. It is posted by permission of the "Circle of Friends" left behind so they can come visit his stories and join together in remembrance. More will follow, and will be noted as to which of those posted are "Eddie's". Transcribed as it was written. Any spelling or grammar items are from the original paper form (or my clumsy fingers)._

__Disclaimer: I own no rights to Living Steel or L.E.G. Max, Ben, Calvin, and anyone else mentioned in the quotes are the intellectual property of their respective owners.__

_._

**The Dogmen**

.

They numbered 15. Nine men and six women. They looked at each other, unsure of who among them was accomplished warrior, and who was raw soldier. Dressed in their field greys, there was no attempt at conversation.

There were no name tags on the uniforms, nor any insignias or duty patches; nothing that could identify any of the recruits. Nothing but their stances. Confidence and danger stood in each man and woman in that room. The 19-year old African girl; the 50-ish Oriental man; the plain looking Westerner – all had the look of Sworders about them.

There were no seats in the small room, only a wall monitor. The lack of space, the exposed fixtures, and the uniform grey color of their surroundings reminded each of them that it was a starship they were on. The uncomfortable warmth and steady hum in the background marked their location on the ship as dangerously close to the Shield Generators of the ship; the all-purpose engines that provided Power, Propulsion, and Protection (the motto of the Seven World's Engineering Corps). No more than six hours exposure out of one hundred could be tolerated by organic materials this side of the ship's internal shielding. The Shield Effect had strange, often terminal effects on living tissues.

The door opened, and two people entered. The new soldiers revealed themselves by immediately adopting an 'Attention' attitude. The older veterans simply waited. Like the rest of them, the new arrivals wore no markings on their grey jumpsuits. A couple of the youngsters began to relax, uneasily taking a cue from their older compatriots.

The male newcomer was Western, medium of stature and thin, appeared to be in his mid-30s. His short-cut hair was beginning to silver through the black. He took a position at the monitor. The women, a short, dark Westerner, stood in the doorway, there not being much space left in the room.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the man started, "I welcome you to the Advance Scout Class. My name is Calvin. This lady is Marie. We will be your principle instructors in this 13-week course. We will also be your principle judges in the success or failure of your attendance here. Before we start with the orientation lecture, though, are there any questions? The _Ethics in Warfare_ classes are down the hall, and if that was your destination, you better go now."

Some of the veterans chuckled. One of the newbies raised his hand. "Yes, sir. Will there be an introduction period?"

Calvin looked at the young man directly. "Not exactly, Mr. Carson. You can introduce yourselves to each other by name after the lecture, but within certain guidelines: No ranks, no unit names, no Legion affiliation. Your individual styles may mark you as TARGA, DRAGON, or Marine, but the rest is quiet. You're entering the realms of shadow warfare, and past and current affiliations are void for the course. Such information may color your attitudes for your fellow recruits." He pushed a prompt on the monitor screen. A logo appeared – an ancient bolt-action rifle crossed against a lightning bolt in a diamond shaped field with a motto in ribbons above and below, "Stealth Kills". He turned back to his audience, "For the hopelessly curious, I am a Silver DRAGON, Major in the Infantry. Marie is a Red TARGA, Lead Sergeant in the Marines. Learn to control your curiosity. It kills, too."

"You are joining a brotherhood. The brotherhood is not an elite one. It is not an honorable or glorious one. It is filled with dirty, filthy, amoral pigs. Cowards. This brotherhood kills people from 1,200 meters away. Murderers and thugs. We sneak and scurry. We stab in the back, shoot from behind, and bomb milk factories. We assassinate, eliminate, and liquidate targets, regardless of their participation in the soldierly arts. We are low-down scum. The bottom of the compost heap. Ugly dogs kept out of sight when guests visit. We fall somewhere between Sworders, Special Servicemen, and the common soldier, and because we smell bad, we're kept as Sworders. In the background. Far in the background. Any name you make for yourself as a Scout will be as a cold-blooded ghost."

"We are needed, though. This is why we're kept. The Seven Worlds, that paragon of social, political, military, and philosophical virtue, needs some nasty, dirty, hard rootin' shooters to do the nasty, dirty, hard jobs. Jobs that the front line Sworders can't ethically do. Jobs that the Specials Service boys don't have the manpower to do…"

"Or the competence," came from the back.

Marie spoke up, "Shut your trap, Maximillian." She nodded to Calvin.

"She's right. The Service, while not our brother, is our beloved cousin. So is the Marine or Infantryman. We do our jobs so they can do theirs. And all of this: Murder and Mayhem, shooting and looting; hell and havoc, is done so that mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, Aunt Trudy and Uncle Mo, can live peacefully. Safely. Denigrate a fellow service, and your tarnish an already dirty deed."

"Some of you have been through the Basic Scout Course, where your shooting skills were refined, you were taught orientation and identification skills, and you basically got to play in the mud for eight weeks. Some of you are here directly, either because of natural talents and tendencies displayed, or because there's no time to get you to a Basic Course site. Tough. Catch up or bounce out. Thirteen weeks is nothing. But, it's all the time given me to turn you from club-fingered, cross-eyed, stomp-footed soldiers into whisper-quiet psychotics. To facilitate this, we are using a new technology: sleep teaching."

He paused for the expected murmurs. Sleep teaching was no new technology, having been used to transfer information directly into the cerebral cortex memory centers by hypothalamus manipulation during cryo-sleep for over 90 years. Such methods, while convenient, were unreliable. Without conscious knowledge of the information, the act of acquisition, such information could inadvertently be buried by other memories, requiring odd, inconvenient, and occasionally uncomfortable stimulus to trigger it.

"The difference is where the teaching will take place." He pushed the prompt. A schematic of the ship appeared on the screen. A chamber near the Shield Generators lit green. Those savvy in the ship layout knew that the lit room was just down the hall.

"The proximity of the Shield Generators and the Effect will facilitate the successful insertion of the data. Because of the Effect restraints, however, you won't be reduced to full cryo-sleep. The techs are certain that it will have no effect on the process. They have not, however, tested it on humans. So, you can expect the little free time you were expecting to be filled with the pokings and proddings of men with even more lax morals and ethics than your own. And because you weren't going to have any free time, you can expect it to cut into your sleep time. Both hours daily. It pays to be a guinea pig."

"The first six weeks will be shipboard. Your training will concentrate on the technical: Gun smithy, electronics, counter-surveillance, the hand-to-hand arts, walking, etcetera. That will be mine to teach you. Once we reach planetside, though, Marie will take over. You will then concentrate on the outdoor and shooting skills that you only think you have. Your sleep teaching will be tested occasionally to determine retention and availability, but everything else will only be tested during hell-week, the last five days of the course. With so much to do and so little time, get it the first time, or get it from a buddy. There will be no repeats or make-up classes."

"It would be ideal for a 100% success rate. It's not going to happen. Not everyone will qualify as a Scout, but we won't kick you out if you can't keep up. These skills are important, and any of them you can learn will help your unit when you return there. You won't be allowed to slow down the class, though; so if at any time you deem the course too tough, you have the option of not reporting for the next cryo-sleep treatment and lounging about the ship or facilities for the remainder of the course."

"You have volunteered to learn these skills. You have chosen a life of death. This decision will affect the rest of your days. You will learn from us, but the most important lesson must be self-taught: How to live with your deed. Ladies and gentlemen, dismissed."

**~LS~LS~LS~LS~LS~**

The sun was high in the sky, throwing its bright cast across the jungle-side. The five men and one woman, dressed mostly in filthy rags and the remains of jumpsuits, looked uncomfortable standing in the small glen. They all knew each other, having spent the last two months together in the hell that their lives had become, but no one wanted to speak. Each had been approached individually and knew nothing of the others. And with what they had been offered, and how they had been told…well, that others might be approached had not even been considered.

They watched as two men approached them from the direction of the 'village'. They saw the determination in the step and eyes of the men. And the sorrow. They knew what they were about to do.

Ben Carson pulled up just short of his students. Looking to Peter Wheeler for a start, receiving only a shrug for a response, he steeled himself.

"Lady. Gentlemen," he started, "I welcome you to the first Dogmen class. Peter and I are going to do our best to turn you into warriors. I don't know how long it will take. The techniques used to teach me can't be recreated here. So I'll have to wing it. I'll be learning as you are. So if we bear with each other, I think we can accomplish something here." He took a deep breath.

"You are joining a brotherhood…"

**~LS~LS~LS~LS~LS~**

_Endnote:_

_Transcribed in loving memory of my friend, Edward Kammert, who penned this work on May 6, 1996._


End file.
